Most of them served of their own volition. And the rest … well. She tried to choose wisely, but perhaps there were a few exceptions. It was a small Shaping, a minor binding at best. None of them took any harm from it, and Lilias dowered them generously, lads and maids alike, when the freshness of their youth began to fade and she dismissed them from her service to go forth and lead ordinary, mortal lives, shaded by the glamor of being part of a story that had begun before they were born, that would continue after their deaths.
None had any right to complain.
And none of them were wise enough to shudder under the shadow of what had occurred here this day, hearing in Grey Dam Vashuka’s stance the echo of what was to transpire in the promise of Haomane’s Prophecy. Lilias heard its echo, and knew, once more, the taste of fear.
The Were shall be defeated ere they rise …
“Thank you, ambassador,” she said. “You have leave to go.”
He left, belly low to the ground, flowing like smoke.
“Beshtanag has never depended on the Were, little ssissster.”
“No.” Lilias leaned back against the strong column of the dragon’s left foreleg, watching blue dusk deepen in the cavern mouth. “But it’s a blow nonetheless. Even if all goes as Tanaros Blacksword claimed, we have to be prepared to keep Haomane’s Allies at bay for a day, perhaps longer. Beshtanag won’t fall in a day, but it would have helped to have the Were in reserve.”
“Yesss.”
On the horizon, the red star winked into visibility. “Calandor?”
“Yess, Liliasss?”
“What if he’s right?” She craned her neck to look up at him. “What if the Dwarfs did choose wisely in choosing Yrinna’s Peace? Might we not do the same? Are we wrong to defy the will of Haomane?”
A nictitating membrane flickered over the dragon’s left eye. “What is right, Liliasss?”
“Right,” she said irritably. “That which is not wrong.”
“In the beginning,” Calandor rumbled, “there was Uru-Alat, and Uru-Alat was all things, and all things were Uru-Alat—”
“—and then came the Beginning-in-End, and the Seven Shapers emerged, and first of all was Haomane, Lord-of-Thought, who was born at the place of the Souma and knew the will of Uru-Alat,” Lilias finished. “I know. Is it true? Does Haomane speak with the World God’s voice? Are we wrong to defy him?”
The dragon bent his sinuous neck, lowering his head. Twin puffs of smoke jetted from his nostrils. “You quote the catechism of your childhood, little ssisster, not mine.”
“But is it true?”
“No.” Calandor lifted his head, sighing a sulfurous gust. “No, Liliasss. You know otherwise. These are things I have shown you. The world began in ending, and it will end in beginning. Thisss, not even Haomane Firsst-Born undersstands. What he grasspss is only a portion of Uru-Alat’ss plan, and his role in it is not as he thinksss. All things mussst be Ssundered to be made whole. It is not finished … yet.”
“Calandor,” she said. “Why did you tell such things to Satoris Third-Born, yet not to Haomane First-Born?”
“Because,” the dragon said. “He asssked.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. At length, Lilias said, “Is that why Haomane despises him?”
The dragon shifted. “Perhapss, Liliasss. I cannot sssay.”
“Between them, they will tear the world asunder anew,” she said in a low voice.
“Yesss,” Calandor agreed. “One in his pride, one in his defiansse. Sso it musst be. All things change and transsmute, even Shapers. They play the roles they mussst.”
“Do they know?” she asked.
Calandor blinked once, slowly. “Sssatoriss knows.”
In the unseasonal warmth she shivered, wrapping her arms about herself, pressing her body against the scaled forelimb. Even the forge-heat of the dragon’s body could not dispel her chill. “Calandor, what of us? What happens if we fail?”
“Fail?” There was amusement in the dragon’s deep voice. “What is failure?”
“Right.” the captain of the Ilona’s Gull scratched his stubbled chin, running a calculating eye over Carfax’ company. “My bargain was for twenty men, not horses. ’Specially not these horses. Reckon they’ll wreak right hell in my hold if the crossing’s rough, won’t they?”
In the bright sunlight of Harrington Bay, the measures taken to disguise the horses of Darkhaven held up poorly. Even with burred manes and ill-kept coats, their eyes gleamed with preternatural intellect, muscles gliding like oil under their bunching hides.
“Look, man.” Carfax struggled for calm, finding his hand reaching for his sword-hilt. Nothing on earth was more frustrating than dealing with the Free Fishers of Harrington Inlet. They owed allegiance to no mortal ruler, and their independence was legendary. “A bargain was made. My understanding is that it was for passage for my men and their mounts … and for the lady. Will you keep it or no?”
A crowd was gathering on the quai, which was to the good. They wanted witnesses who could testify that a group of armed men, likely Pelmaran, had departed on the Ilona’s Gull, escorting a woman garbed in a cloak of white silk wrought by Ellylon, the gold-embroidered crowns and ruby Souma glinting in the sunlight.
What they didn’t want was witnesses who crowded close enough to note that the supposed Pelmarans spoke the common tongue with a Staccian accent, the horses they rode were found nowhere else on earth, and beneath the shadow of her exquisite hood, the Ellyl noblewoman sported blond beard-stubble.
“I might …” the captain drawled, winking at his mates. “For a price. A damage tax, y’see.”
“Fine,” Carfax snapped. If he’d had the luxury of time, he’d have showed the Free Fisherman what it meant to bargain with a disciple of mighty Vorax, whose appetite was matched only by his shrewdness. But somewhere behind them—hours, at best—a host of Haomane’s Allies pursued them. “Name your price.”
The Free Fisher captain pursed his wind-chapped lips. “I might do it for a pair of those fine steeds you ride, goodman.”
“Two horses?” Carfax raised his hand, cutting off a protest from his comrades.
“Two.” The captain nodded. “Aye, two will do it. Reckon they’ll fetch a good price in Port Calibus.” He grinned, revealing strong white teeth. “They do like to cut a fine figure astride, those Vedasian knights.”
“Done.”
The bargain struck, the planks were laid, and Carfax’s company began boarding the Ilona’s Gull. The horses of Darkhaven permitted themselves to be led down the ramps with wary dignity, eyes rolling as they descended into the ship’s hold. Turin in his Ellyl cloak was hustled aboard, surrounded by an escort. Carfax breathed a sigh of relief as he disappeared.
“Lieutenant.” One of his men, young Mantuas, tugged at his elbow. “Lieutenant,” he hissed in Staccian, “we can’t part with any of the horses! ’Twill leave a trail pointing straight to Darkhaven!”
“Peace, lad,” Carfax muttered out of the side of his mouth. “At least speak in common, if you must. Hey!” he added, shouting at the pressing crowd, affecting a Pelmaran accent rather well, he thought. “You and you, get back! This is important business, and none of yours!”
They withdrew a few paces, the Free Fishers; net-men and fish-wives, curious children with bright eyes. A few paces, no more. Carfax hid a smile. Lord Vorax had a fondness for the Free Fishers of Harrington Inlet, truth be told. Stubborn as they were, they had the pride of their self-interest, unabashed and free—some, like this captain, even willing to strike deals with agents of suspect origin.